


I Love Him, but Only on My Own

by BenvolioPontmercy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cutting, Grantaire is really drunk and Enjolras is a douche, I tried my best, I'm sorry if you hate this, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenvolioPontmercy/pseuds/BenvolioPontmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So you didn't come back for me, eh?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love Him, but Only on My Own

Grantaire was drunk. Like always. Not a single “Junior Activist” meeting had gone by without him finishing off at least two bottles of wine—usually more, and stronger stuff. All he remembered from this last meeting was some new disease Joly had contracted, and an angelic glow that seemed to form around Enjolras when he talked. Of course, the latter was definitely alcohol-induced, but whatever. It was still nice to look at.

He was half asleep when he felt a hand roughly shaking him. “Wake up. The meeting’s over,” he heard someone say. It felt like the voice was coming from miles away. Slowly, Grantaire opened his eyes to find himself looking into Enjolras’s beautiful blue eyes. He stretched up, and fell backwards off of his usual stool in the corner. “Why do you even come to these meetings?” Enjolras was already halfway out the door, and clearly wasn’t going to help Grantaire out.

“Please give me a ride home,” Grantaire groaned from his fetal position on the floor. Judging from the silence that came as a response, Enjolras was either long gone or was ignoring the brunette’s pleas. After a few minutes, Grantaire began to desperately grab at the other nearby stools and the bar, trying to stand up. Eventually, he gave up, and remained curled in a ball on the floor.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small yet deadly razor. He knew being drunk wasn’t the best time to do this. Still, he needed to feel something. He would only do a bit, he promised himself. No more than a few lines. Holding the razor to his wrist, he tugged slightly. The feeling he got at the release was almost orgasmic. It hurt. There were tears in his eyes, but he kept placing the razor on his wrist and pulling it to feel the release.

“Please stop.”

Grantaire stayed silent for about a minute, clutching his razor. “You’re still here.”

“So are you.”

Enjolras weaved his way past Grantaire to the coat rack by the bar. He picked up his red coat and began to walk back to the door frame.  
“So you didn’t come back for me, eh?” laughed Grantaire feebly.

Suddenly, before he knew what happened, Enjolras was yanking him into an upright position by his shirt collar.

Their faces were centimeters apart.

“You’re going to end up killing yourself. You’ll be dead, alone, and I won’t be there to help you. I don’t want to feel guilty about you. Quit the drinking, the drugs, the cutting.”

Grantaire remained silent, but weaved his fingers into Enjolras’s hair, leaving red streaks in the golden curls. A hand slipped gently below his knees, and another was placed on his back, and he was being lifted up. Grantaire nestled his face into the collar of the red jacket and allowed himself to be carried away from the bar and into the bathroom.

When the cold water began to drip over his fresh wounds, he jerked away with as decisive of a motion as he could muster. Enjolras shushed him and stroked his hair. Grantaire tensed up as the water streamed down his arm again and sighed in relief as the faucet creaked off. Enjolras dried Grantaire’s arm off, and looked into the sad gray eyes.

“Sorry,” mumbled Grantaire. Enjolras said nothing, and reached past Grantaire to grab bandages left out for a situation such as this one. Grantaire found their closeness to be sobering. The dreamlike state was fading, and Enjolras no longer had his angelic glow. Now he was just some guy cleaning wounds in a bathroom. Grantaire was so close to Enjolras, so close he could kiss him. But that was against Enjolras’s rules, and he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate it.

And, yet…

Grantaire allowed himself to lean forward and kiss Enjolras on the lips. Not passionately, just a small peck. Almost familial, even, but there was no denying that it was in fact a kiss.

When Grantaire quickly pulled his lips away, Enjolras raised his eyebrows and began to bandage the bloodied wrist.

Say something, you blonde little twat, thought Grantaire. He had never been more jittery, more nauseous. Not even when all his alcohol was confiscated, or his razor. When Enjolras finished bandaging Grantaire’s arm, he helped him off of the counter and carried him to his car.

They rode in absolute silence. When they reached Grantaire’s apartment complex, Enjolras carried him through the front door, up the stairs, into his apartment, and into his bed. Enjolras silently walked away, like a ghost. When he reached the doorway, he hesitantly turned to look at the younger man, with his raven brown curls. “You will not speak of that to anyone, and you will not attempt to do that again. I understand you are under the influence of alcohol, but it is not allowed. I will not permit it." He walked out, and Grantaire heard the door shut behind him.

He began to cry, his only comfort being his razor, a bottle of vodka, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.


End file.
